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Posted by on May 17, 2016 in Retirement Humour, Retirement Living |

DEATH BY BEALLS BUCKS #145 – April 18, 2016

DEATH BY BEALLS BUCKS #145 – April 18, 2016


I’m being held hostage in the men’s fitting room at BEALLS in St. Petersburg Florida.

Jan is throwing enough summer shorts and t-shirts overtop the half door to bury the entire population of Rhode Island. It’s like an avalanche. But instead of snow, it’s raining the latest styles and colours of men’s resort wear.

Jan is determined. She’s elevated her game. She’s now in FHM: full heave mode.

Shirts and shorts are coming at me faster than Donald Trump insults at a Republican debate. I’m like Dr. Ben Carson trying to get someone’s attention!

Inside its piled so high that to peer overtop of the fitting room door… I have to bend down!!

Who the hell designs fitting rooms? You have to strip down to your underwear behind half a door and then perform a retail wedgie to sit on a triangular bench seat.

It’s harder than you think: the sharp pins buried in the carpet make it like a home version of self-acupuncture!

“Gary try these on; this size may fit better!” A torrent of multiple sizes of shorts and shirts descend overtop the door.

Each time I open the door to model the latest fashion… Jan’s gone.

Now I’m I walking aimlessly in sock feet holding a pair of belt-less pants while sucking in my stomach! I know Security has me on their cameras.

Each item is attached to an electronic antitheft device the size of an oversize dinner plate from Pier One.

Who on earth would attach the antitheft device on a pair of summer weight casual slacks inside the crotch? When I walk out of the fitting room it looks like I’m, well, a porn star.

At the checkout a ‘sales associate’ will remove the security feature with industrial bolt cutters. Failure means when I exit the store a bloodcurdling alarm will notify NORAD to scramble their jets.

This all began when friends we are visiting gave me $35 in Bealls Bucks for my birthday. Their generosity cost me $117. You do the math!

With my shopping done it’s time for Jan to spend Bealls Bucks we don’t have.

I am assigned to a seat on the designated Men’s Bench that retailers provide near the cashiers station. It’s where guys shrug their shoulders as they collapse under the weight of garments manufactured offshore.

The guy beside me looks like he’s a Florida retiree. You know one of those men you see walking on the beach: covered head to toe with a long sleeve shirt, long pants and black dress shoes– waving a metal detector searching for worthless metal paperclips!

Jan is back with a new purse. A woman can never have enough purses, even if you’re running out of money to put in them.

Then it happened…

As the cashier scanned my purchases I noticed that she is wearing a large Bealls badge that says: ‘Certified Bra Fitting Specialist.’

A huge banner reveals today is ‘Bra Fit Day. Complimentary Fitting.’

Overhead, ‘Shoppers this is your day for a personalized bra fitting. See one of our certified bra fitting specialists.’

I’m uncomfortable. I feel like a real boob, err rather, make that, oh forget it!

Just like that Bealls has become ‘Bras R Us.’